SELFISH

J is off being all fancy businessman in Montana (where he had a long discussion with the rental car company about not giving him a BIG GIANT RENTAL CAR--I thought Texas was where everything is bigger) and I am kicking it single girl style. Sadly, no male strippers just too many pizza rolls and cans of Diet Dr. Pepper (am living the wild life).

I used to love to live alone but now I feel like a big giant cliche because not so much. It is just sort of creepily quiet plus the dogs are being pissy about having to accept their medicinal cheese from me. The also both decided to have diarrhea in the cellar today which made that smell . . . delicious?

Why does Buster's ear medicine smell EXACTLY like peach candy? It is totally ruining peach candy for me.

In other news my boobs are . . .looking odd.

Just prior to my ladytime the girls tend to swell up a bit. This month they have swollen a lot--enough that I am thinking that maybe J has been using them for a kick boxing workout--and are pointing just slightly uh outward? Like my nipples are two lazy eyes? I don't know, it is freaking me out. It took me entirely too long this morning to jam my breasts into a bra.

And sadly, the one person I could legitimately make discuss my breasts with me is in Montana. Damn selfish man.

Positive or Negative?

We have a Sunday routine now. There is usually an early football game we want to see, one that is unavailable on our cable network because somehow the schedulers think that even people who live on the West Coast don't give a shit about teams on the West Coast and award us the fucking Eagles/Redskins game, and so we head to our bar around the corner.

We fucking love this bar.

It is a total dive. It has improved as the season has progressed because they got a second toilet in the ladies' room and there used to just be a rusty hole.

But the people are nice, we have our designated TV, they are generous with the booze in drinks (and they are value priced) and the breakfast is pretty good for a bar. And cheap to boot.

I still like watching the game better at home. Usually the audio is for a game on another TV and I miss the commentary (well sometimes because sometimes football commentary is worse than baseball commentary and that seems fucking impossible). I like curling up under a blanket at home and asking dumb questions (I am trying to learn all the penalty hand signals this year because it annoys me that J can guess the penalties first). At the bar it usually takes me a couple of bloody marys (fortunately the double is only four dollars on Sunday!) to loosen up enough to not feel self-conscious to scream FUMBLE FUMBLE FUMBLE at every opportunity (I mean, I still do it, even though it makes me self-conscious I can't help myself).

But it is sort of interesting to have your bar. We've carved a little spot in there for ourselves. We know most of the regulars, at least by sight, and the bartender and cook. They through us off today though, the regular bartender was sick and they had their weekday gal in there. I missed the regular one, she was much faster and looser with the drinks. But you can't have everything.

Two years ago I had watched maybe one NFL game all together. Today I walked into a bar and was greeted by "HEEEEEEEEEEEEY, the fucking 49ers fans are here! Change the corner TV."

I'm not sure what kind of accomplishment that is exactly.

DIFFERENT AND DIFFICULT

One of the big issues in my marriage is food.

Well, I mean sort of. I guess food is just where some of this comes out at is--in big ugly messes that lead to weird judgments of each other--the truth is the big issue is more of he didn't grow up the same as me and I didn't grow up the same as him and so together we are weird.

We are busy people. I like to cook but don't really have time for extensive meal planning. I think I am a good enough cook--I could be better but again these things take time which is one damn thing I do not have the episodes of Ellen on my Ti-Faux aren't going to watch themselves you know. So to me, when I take time and make something special that is like a statement. Not to get to melodramatic and oh my GOD like those girls who squeal at work, but you know it is part of taking care of my husband (fuck, I sound like such a tool but whatever notice I don't do it every day--he is grown adult he can feed himself). Unfortunately, J doesn't take it that way. He just shrugs it off as dinner and will gleefully eat leftovers right before because he's "hungry NOW" and doesn't want to wait. I mean he is just snacking, he'll still eat dinner, but to me it is like he just doesn't fucking care about me and my efforts and to him it is just eating.

Yes, I am aware that I am a giant fucking cliche.

The truth is that neither of us are wrong, which is sadly usually the case. We are just different and even when we explain our sides to each other there is some heading shaking on both of our parts and how SILLY the other is. He thinks dinner is just dinner and not a metaphor for our entire MARRIAGE?! And he has already moved on to thinking about gravy or something.

DIFFERENT.

At any rate it is both frustrating and unsolvable really, unless we would like to go back in time and have the same family of origin which would create a whole NEW SET of issues and be about eighty-eleven kinds of gross. So we just try to slog through it and not kill each other. So far so good.

Not sure I will make brined porkchops with lemon pepper new potatoes again any time soon though.

Soon

I have to admit there was some boozing in the AB household last night. There were drinks because we were happy, drinks because we were nervous that we were being too optimistics, drinks because things could still go wrong and drinks because they didn't.

I gave up early, watching returns is kind of dull. But the boys were up forever obsessing about the details.

I feel like the President has set back the country a couple of decades. That civil rights and the economy and our reputation in the world is going to take a generation to recover. This doesn't fix anything it just stops the bleeding.

Of course now J is talking (ok he already was) about 2008. I'm not quite ready for that.

But more ready than I was on Monday.

Thanks Seneca

Since this town is entirely shut down by record flooding and rain and wind and the traffic from Monday Night Football I came home early.

The house is still standing, that feels good.

It is oddly warm out--am worried that we are going to get cyclones or thunder or something.

The weekend was eventful. We went to the chiropractor where various joints and bones were cracked. We took Darla and Buster to the vet. My parents' dog Madeline tried to come home with us and had to be bodily removed from our car.

I am not ready to talk about Darla yet. Let me just say she has a potentially dangerous but probably nothing condition that is going to have to be addressed. I am being a big fucking baby about it (including a kind of humiliating meltdown in the car where I wiped my nose with my HAIR) but trying to get it together.

She is going to be FINE because my dogs are IMMORTAL and CANNOT DIE ESPECIALLY RIGHT NOW.

Obviously I am rational.

Seneca Wallace is kicking the shit out of the Raiders right now. I think that is going to help my denial.

Why Is Skin So Annoying

Why is it when you get a sunburn it tans out in a day or two to a lovely brown color but when you burn your hand on the door of the oven it just turns into an angry red spot?

At least the cookies are delicious.

Damn Candy

I believe that the Milky Way Midnight Bite Size are either the most perfect food ever created or a diabolical weapon from an unknown foe. Because I CANNOT stop eating them. Except for now, because I ate them all.

Well played unknown foe. WELL PLAYED.

I Am The Only One That Misses My Meg Ryan Cut

I feel like all I talk about anymore is my hair but I am still going to do it. Since it has crossed over from medium into long (but just barely long) I am getting a lot of comments. Universally complimentary, usually of the vaguely insulting kind (ie, "it's so cute NOW). It is a little ridiculous how much the boys seem to like it--do y'all have to be cliches? But even J has become just a normal piggy guy with begging me not to cut it.

I seem to be the only one that misses the short hair. Don't get me wrong, I think it looks good and it isn't SO MUCH work. But I just really identified with the sort of spunky, messy cuts that I used to get. To me they were cute and a little sexy but could be made casual or sophisticated. I just felt really comfortable in them. Turns out I was the only one and people just love love love the new look.

So I am trying to adjust to the boredom of long hair (it just looks the SAME every day--I mean yeah sometimes I wear it wavy but I don't know, so SAME) and DAYAM am I loving the return of pony tails on the weekend. Which brings me to my major complaint.

Fucking hair accessories.

I know I was a little scarred by the eighties. I still can't do pastels or colored socks or anything with hearts involved. And those claw clips with weird shapes on them have made me shudder at anything but the most basic (black) pieces. I found this really cute one last week, round plastic with these rubber strips in the center (fuck I am not describing this well--I'm making is sound like a primevil gynelogical torture device) that holds your pony tail. Looks sleek and clean. And doesn't FUCKING FIT OVER MY REALLY THICK GODDAMN HAIR. Which is the story of my life with hair--I break clips and rubber bands all the time. Updos do not stay. My hair just wants to be big and all over the place.

SEE WHY I MISS THE SHORT STUFF?

Happy Halloween

I've only gotten four trick or treaters tonight. One came when J was here alone (a toddler dressed as a pirate--SHUT UP that is so freaking cute). The last three came together and not a one of them was in a costume. Fuck that noise. I mean I still gave them candy but dude.

I'm not a big Halloween person. I like it in theory. I really like the IDEA of scary movies. I do. They seem like they would be fun, others like them. And who doesn't love being scared shitless?

Oh wait ME.

I can't do the horror movies. Repeat exposure seems to help. But you know, that means I have to get through it a time or three to be able to stand it. And some of them I just cannot do. They don't even have to be actually scary. Like Scream scares the absolute shit out of me. That whole scene with Drew Barrymore in the beginning has reduced me to tears more than once when it is playing on the Lifetime Movie Network. How scary can a movie on Lifetime be. Apparently enough for me.

So we didn't do costumes this year. But I really wanted to. And I think we will have to come up with something fun to do next year. And I love seeing all the little kids in their costumes. That is why I am so upset about the trick or treaters.

There better be a small child dressed as some sort of ape or cowboy or something showing up at my door or I will probably cry worse than I do during Scream.

Landslide

So. I have written here about my unspeakable love for Jamie Hyneman.

My pal Linda made fun of me just this week about this. Even though she has a thing for freaking Bobby Flay. Which to me is much more embarrassing and unexplainable. But don't take my word for it. Let's have a Jamie vs. Bobby fight to the finish.

Bobby Pros: Can cook anything, anywhere, anytime. I imagine Mr. Flay would be on permanent KP duty in any household. And given the size of his man-boobies he shouldn't talk too much shit about any cellulite you might have. He does have hair--even if it is a little poofy. Excellent people skills and sense of humor. He's pretty famous, enough that I am sure he gets free shit but not SO FAMOUS that there are many groupies. And if they are food groupies and probably chubby. Or bulemic. He knows about wine. Also, he seems like the type to wear a man-thong if that is your preference. Just saying.

Bobby Cons: Man-boobies. Poofy hair. Kind of arrogant. Huge ego. Would undoubtedly be snobby as shit about any crappy food that you might want to eat--no boxed macaroni and cheese, no pudding cups. A peanut butter sandwich cannot be a fucking peanut butter sandwich it must also have cayenne pepper, pecan butter and four berry jam.

Jamie Pros: Rakish ability to wear berets. Handy with tools. Almost alarming science ability. Ripped out body (did you see the episode that he wore a latex body suit in? DAYAM). Calm in pressure situations. Owns a drill press. Could adapt Coke machine to actually deliver sodas to my couch. Walrus mustache. Blows shit up for fun. Drop dead sexy.

Jamie Cons: Bald. Eerily calm. Nerdy possible to a fault. Has annoying sidekick. Science groupies probably wear seductive underwear. Doesn't wear latex suit every day. Walrus mustache.

WINNER: JAMIE

Landslide victory baby.

THANK FUCKING GOD

Back when I got my new job we sort of thought J was getting one too. One of his clients had been sniffing around him for months. Since then it has been drug through eight thousand different kinds of drama. We've been up and down a hundred times. I admit I've hit the panic button at least three times thinking we were headed to my mom and dad's basement. But today, today he got the offer. He took it.

I have a feeling there will be some drinking tonight.

Like Actual Whore's Wear Tights

My mother and I have many long standing arguments about fashion.

She likes ugly shit covered in glitter and I rip it screaming from her hands. She wears colors that she knows are unflattering just because they are "bright," I really think you should stick to shit that looks good with your skintone.

I have talked her out of tapered pants, pleats, bulky sweaters and her scarily blond hair color. But I have never been able to make her budge on pantyhose.

I don't wear pantyhose. My mother thinks this is a generational thing, which maybe but the older women at my office don't wear pantyhose either. I think that they make you hot and sweaty in the warm weather and do not keep you warm at all in the winter. You still have to shave because squished down leg hair is even uglier than just leg hair. You are fooling no one with the skin color changes either--that shit ain't found in nature. Overall pantyhose serve no purpose and are uncomfortable and ridiculous.

And my mother fucking loves them. She wears them all of the time. WITH PANTS EVEN. With open-toed shoes. There is no stopping the pantyhose train for her. And she is just bewildered that I don't love them as much as she does.

She was further horrified that the only pair of hosiery I currently own are fishnet tights. Which are completely work appropriate in my fashion-oriented environment. Even the grey-haired executives in my office don't blink an eye, even complimenting me on how "sassy" I look. Older men and women on the bus look at me like I am a whore.

But I have news for you pantyhose lovers out there. Fishnets are the most flattering hosiery out there. The pattern makes your legs look firmer and leaner (and distract from any jiggliness of which I have none of course). They are infinitely more comfortable. They take a normal outfit--black skirt, black sweater--and make it fashion forward.

Plus they don't make you look my mother.

And I swear, you won't look like a whore.

Dear People At Work, I Don't Think You Want Me With You Today

Yesterday I got these flashes of light in my vision that tragically were not caused by dancing too close to a disco ball and letting the vodka martinis go to my head. I had a horrible, face-draining, doozy of a migraine. The kind of migraine that makes everything go flashy and that makes you use words like doozy unironically. I toughed it out at work as long as possible and them limped onto a bus. I didn't puke on the bus (go me!). And I took the longest, hottest shower in the history of showers and ended the day lying on the couch moaning and whining (much to the delight of J, who earned a Husband Scout Marriage Badge of some sort last night because he made pancakes).

I woke up this morning feeling like I spent the night contorted in a vice so I guess work wasn't happening. The dogs are supervising my day of moaning and whining (they are asleep so I think I am not doing it loud enough) and hopefully I will be chipper again soon.

I have a hard time staying home from work. I feel vaguely guilty even if I am really sick. Like somehow I need to prove to my collegues that I am sick enough to be home. Even though I know I don't give a shit when they stay home so why would they care when I do? But still, I am trying to resist the urge to take digital pictures of myself being pitiful and emailing them along. I try to at least appear professional to those at work. They don't need to know what a sad sack of patheticness I really am. I'm not really sure how well I am pulling that off though.

But Don't Hold Your Breath

J and I went golfing again today--uh we went last Sunday WHAT IS HAPPENING TO ME WHY IS THE WORLD TURNING THE OTHER DIRECTION?!--and it was a gorgeous day. But why did no one tell me that golf courses in the greater Seattle area are not as warm as those in Florida? I was SHOCKED by the development since that meant I needed to wear a damn fleece and (sadly) I had my down jacket with me. It turned into a gorgeous day but the shady parts of the course were not so AB friendly. I take back all my whining in Florida. I will take 55 degrees over this 40 degree shit.

Also different? No palm trees or palmettos. WHO KNEW?

I feel like I am just now recovering from our trip. Work was just rough this week. SO much shit to do (and drama at home), still sort of jet lagged. So many hours. UGH. Plus, you know, had to stay up and watch Project Runway on Wednesday.

I gave Darla a hair cut and a bath yesterday (deserving a purple heart in the process let me say) because J had to take Buster to get his shots and ears checked. We are the kind of terrible dog owners that we allow our pugs ears to smell like a cesspool before we do anything about it. Understandably neither dog liked us much last night. Something about abandoning them for a week and then either trying to drown them of allow stranger to tackle and the jab needles into their skin.

We're sequestered in our cellar now. Eating cheetos, watching football (SHIT is Hasselback OUT?) and relaxing.

Maybe I'll stop being boring this week.

Confession

I must confess that I had mentally composed, but not actually written, a slightly smug but attempting to be uplifting post about how things are pretty damn good lately.

After a few years of just piles of shit falling on our heads good things had really started to happen in the AB household. My health is the best that it has been in a long time, we are getting ready to begin infertility treatments, my career is good, J's career is good, we have a gorgeous house, good friends, my parents are in good health. Everything is fucking fabulous.

I think I felt like we deserved the good stuff, after the bad. Even though our bad is nothing like the bad that people who have it really bad go through. It isn't losing your family in a tsunami bad, or being so poor you can't feed your children bad or even becoming a widow at an early age bad. And I don't believe that people earn happiness either. I don't think God, or whatever great force you might believe in, chooses sides that way. Rewarding one person seems like punishing those who are suffering. I don't really think that the world works that way.

But still, I felt so good and so confident that we had turned this corner.

I think everyone knows where this is headed. Nothing horrible has happened yet. I suppose that should be our family motto. Perhaps I will take up needlepoint and embroider that shit on a sampler. But things have slid downward a hair.

And I am devestated. Not because things are so bad but because I am losing the ability to ever feel good about my life. It feels impossible to feel hope or pleasure or comfort. I am heartbroken.

Maybe that is how it is supposed to be.

At Least I Am Not Posting Photos Of My Urine . . .YET

It's not that my sister's wedding wasn't grand and all it is just that it resembled nothing like a vacation. It was stressful and the hotel sucked and at times we were bored (it was vacation-like in that J whined about golf a lot and was drunk the whole time). We had the longest day in the history of the world yesterday--with delayed flights and a last second terminal change that had us running (ME RUNNING) to catch the plane and my mother got very stoned to convince herself that small planes don't bother her a bit.

We got home very late only to have to drive to Egypt to pick up the dogs who were PISSED that we left them with Travis for a week. And then we passed out. There is blood in my urine, I have a fever and feel like vomiting. Work was crazy. And I am just fucking tired.

I promise to be more interesting later. Of course I have been promising that for months so it just could be that this interesting is all relative.

Not Sure I Am The New Tiger

I went golfing this morning.

I didn't actually golf, GOD NO, but I got up for an early tee time this morning. I wore a jacket because the sun was not heating things up yet. I drove the cart and I hunted through the damn woods when J lost his ball at almost every hole.

Six months ago J started golfing. I was in denial at first. I thought he would get bored. Or lose interest. But he just got more and more sucked in. He goes to the driving range a couple of times a week. Tries to play a round a couple of times a month. He watches golf on TV. He reads books about it. I know where entirely too many golf superstores are located.

Clearly this is a more than a passing fancy.

Since we were trying to treat this trip as at least a partial vacation he golfed with my aunt on Friday and wanted to go again before we went home. So I came as the laziest caddy ever. And took a lot of pictures. And made fun of his posture.

I actually had a good time. Gorgeous course, beautiful day and just a nice relaxing time. He wants me to take lessons so that we can do this as a couple.

He has grand visions of golfing vacations and hours spent together on this new shared hobby. I guess I can try. Especially if he can manage to get tee times that don't make me drag my ass out of bed so early.

Low Standards

I am so pissed off at the fucking Comfort Inn.

We are not fancy hotel people. Mainly because we are cheap and can only afford cheap vacations. And I have long loved the Comfort Inn because they are a middle priced hotel (not CHEAP but not crazy expensive either) but clean and well . . comfortable.

My sister lives in a tiny town. A tiny town that has expensive ass hotels so the Comfort Inn here is nowhere near cheap. And is a fucking dump.

It is dirty. They didn't clean our room for fucking three days (and only cleaned it today because my mom pitched a fit). It is smoky. There is mold on the ceiling in the bathroom. An employee just walked right in when we were getting dressed for my sister's wedding (hope you enjoyed staring at my boobs dude). They were installing carpet at EIGHT AM above our room the first night.

And we are paying entirely too much for the priviledge.

When we get home I am going to be writing a lot of letters to their corporate offices and reviews on travel sites. If you are to charge this much you ought to not be completely fucking disgusting.

Happy Eight Hour Anniversary Kiddo

My sister got married today.

My mother was still baking wedding cakes this morning, J and I were doing hits off his flask throughout the day, my dad's zipper wouldn't close and I spent a surprising amount of my day taping my mother's breasts but she got married, she looked stunning and NO ONE GOT STABBED.

A very successful day.

There were moments of course. My feet swelled up like balloons because I was running around in hot as fuck weather in very high shoes. My mother and I were FERVENTLY admired by the men fixing the washing machine at the hotel but you know she had a serious rack going today and my ass looked fantastic. A person at the reception told J how they were praying for him because he was "lost" (do people not get how fucking offensive that is? It's not lost it is JEWISH). We almost lost her cat (my sister is reading this and having a stroke--he bolted but was corralled with no harm but dude we had eighty-four thousand things to carry in your house WE'RE SORRY WE KNOW YOU WARNED US). It took me twenty minutes to do my mother's makeup and about seventy of those were spent coloring in her eyebrows.

But it was a beautiful service. My sister has some lovely friends. I can see why she feels connected to this community.

And one would assume she is getting laid tonight and that can only be good right?

Conspiracy Of The Girly Bits

At EIGHT AM this morning (5 Pacific) there was loud banging and pounding on our ceiling.

OH HELL NO.

Fucking fly across the country, get in late, pay way too much for kind of a crappy room and then the front desk is RUDE when you complain about the POUNDING at 8am?

They were ripping up carpet. Above a paying customer's room. And I know 8 isn't early for business travelers but I seriously doubt that anyone here this week is a business traveler. SO SHUT THE FUCK UP.

And I got my mother fucking period. Early? After a hiatus of a few months last time? Is my uterus trying to make me nuts? Am I already there since I am referring to my uterus as a sentient being?

DAMN IT.

We're Here, I Need Some Booze

Things learned when traveling across the damn country.

1. If J takes a muscle relaxer because his back hurts he will be groggy, cranky and act kind of like a tool. This would be less annoying if I had seen him take the stupid pill and aren't all WTF?

2. My mother is afraid of tiny planes and filled a prescription for valium to help her get here. If a member of your traveling party needs medication to get on the plane then she will inevitable PACK SAID medication. Fortunately, she had convinced herself that we were flying in a paper airplane and was so relieved that it was a fifty seater that she practically skipped on the damn thing.

3. If you are going to rip your jeans on your trip, you will do it RIGHT AFTER your suitcase is carried outside and you can't change your clothes. They will also be your favorite jeans and the only ones that are the right length to wear with your flat shoes.

4. People are not lying when they mention that the Atlanta airport sucks. They also cannot get a flight off on time. We sat longer on the runway than the flight took.

5. If between five people there are nine pieces of luggage the airline will lose both of the bags of one person so they have no clothes or toiletries. Sadly, they will not lose J's golf clubs.

6. If J doesn't stop whining about his fucking golf I will shove a club up his ass. Actually, I didn't need to travel at all for that. I have felt that way for the past six weeks. I DON'T FUCKING CARE ABOUT YOUR GOLF.

BOO HISS

My god this weekend was just a whirlwind of trying to get over a cold and packing and cleaning and hiding from my semi-suicidal husband (three years in a row Yankee meltdown = awesome except I feel sorry for him). I am so tired from trying to get ready for this stupid trip (taking a vacation right after starting a new job is dumb, who knew?) not that going to my sister's wedding is stupid blah blah blah. I am tired yo.

And I have to get up at like 5 tomorrow.

I'm Human

The Yankees are getting their asses kicked. And I can't even enjoy it.

I don't like the Yankees. I respect them and I like their attitude. That expectation of winning. How their management is willing to DO ANYTHING to win. I wish the Cubs' management would be the same.

But I still want the Tiger's to win.

J loves the Yankees in a way that really does resemble mental illness. He throws tantrums and yells and screams and loses his shit during the losses. And like most Yankee fans he can't really enjoy the wins because they are supposed win. I think he mainly feels relief.

For all my talk about enjoying punching him in the balls I can't really stand for J to suffer so I can't enjoy their ass-kicking.

Unless it's Boston. I MEAN COME ON.

Not That I Am Willing To Pull Anymore Teeth

Our pal Travis got his wisdom teeth pulled today. Since my oral surgeon acted like I should notify Walter Cronkite for being 23 when I got mine pulled I can imagine his had a stroke since he is over thirty.

My husband is truly excellent at taking care of people following oral surgery though. He keeps you very drugged and eating pudding and sleeping. People talk about how much it sucked getting their's pulled and mine is sort of a funny memory. Lots of pudding and drooling and I think I called my surgeon "Dr. Lucky Charms." Since he was Scottish this was not nearly as funny as I thought it was. J also totally calls you on your bullshit when you try to get up and do things and rams the narcotics down your throat.

So poor Travis spent the day on our couch. I guess the extra twenty steps to the guest room was just TOO MUCH to bear. I brought him Jello and pudding cups and tried to talk him into staying the night. He was having none of it though we did manage to talk him out of going to school tomorrow and driving a goddamn car.

Man, I can't even get sympathy for my cold when he is so damn pitiful.

Not Just For Degrassi and 90210

I don't really use my TiFaux the right way. I mean I record shows and watch them commerical free. I have hours and hours of things I am embarassed about ready and waiting in my que.

But I abuse the priviledge because I also use my TiFaux for evil.

I pause during shows trying to freeze certain actresses in unflattering poses. This is particularly fun if you can make a very thin girl look fat.

I also use pause so I can throw things at the TV.

I save shows that have yummy men in them so I can watch them over and over (sad but true confession, there is a certain episode of Mythbusters that I kept for six months for that purpose).

I save shows that I will never actually watch because I feel like I should be watching them.

Worst of all, I still have a Sportscenter saved from when Harold Reynolds was on.

I really need to delete that.

A Lot Of Work To Do

The past couple of weeks have marked the holiest time in the Jewish calendar. The High Holidays are a time of celebration but also solemn contemplation. Sort of a yearly performance review. While God is passing judgment on us all our job is to make up for hurting each other. This is the sort of personal accountability that draws me to Judaism. It is not enough to be sorry you are a murderer, you need to get right with your victims' family.

I don't think I have hurt many people this year. Sometimes I say unkind things (sometimes I publish them on the internet) but I really do try to treat people in a respectful way. I am not much of a law breaker. But I do fail, at least for my own personal goals, that I don't always put my money where my mouth is. I believe in social change, in trying to set people up to make a success of themselves. My husband is a great example of what a person can do if they work hard enough and if people believe in them. But I don't spend the time or money to help create that change.

Which is how, last night, a young man came to my door. Selling magazines for a program that teaches at risk young people about professionalism and salesmanship (and gives them things like help getting their GED, childcare, grooming, clothing, etc). I couldn't turn him away, even though I didn't need any magazines, even though at the time I wasn't sure he was even legitimate (he was, I checked out the group last night). I talked to him for more than an hour, about what he wants to do with his life, what he wants for his daughter. I hated myself because I couldn't invite him in (honestly, I probably shouldn't have opened the door--in my neighborhood you don't answer the door late at night) and I felt racist because the young man was black. Maybe it was racist. Though to be honest, in a more racist way, I think I would have felt more threatened by a young white man. Every young black man in America is an at-risk youth. If his parents are millionaires he is an at-risk youth. Society has set him up to fail. But white men (as a rule, obviously there are exceptions, one of them is in my basement) are set up in every way to succeed. So to qualify for this program they might be a scary mother-fucker.

I bought a magazine subscription (I wanted to buy more but SHIT those are expensive) for more money than I really have for that sort of thing. This was better than giving to charity because this young man really wanted to do this, he was sincere in believing that this was his big opportunity. I do not know what his life has been like, if he is an ex-criminal or did drugs or maybe he just didn't finish school because he had a little baby at home. Maybe he was making the whole thing up (which would be sort of an impressive display of what an excellent car salesman he will be someday). But I bought it. I was really buying this feeling of doing something.

But maybe I don't treasure that feeling the way that I thought I did. Because I am sitting here thinking about how maybe I should cancel that subscription.

That Bitch Joan Rivers Better Not Say It

I would like to ban a phrase. Bling bling shall no longer be used by anyone, anytime, ever again. Not even ironically. It is bad enough that I once heard Barbara Walters use it on the View. It is deplorable that the term is used on the Oscar Red Carpet. But y'all, I had to explain BLING to my mother this weekend.

We are sitting at lunch, talking about shoes and my sister's wedding and should we get pedicures next weekend (answer: YES because damn my heels are crusty) when my mother leans over and asks quietly and sagely, "Do you know what bling is?"

I try to explain about rappers and the socio-economic source of the term and end up blurting out something about tacky-ass jewelry. And I am just dreading what she is going to tell me about why she wants to know.

My mother teaches high school. This is their Homecoming week and apparently schools still do those dressup days the week before. And they are having a "Bling-Bling" day.

Y'all, my mother thought it was one of the Sanrio characters like fucking Hello Kitty. She was so confused, she couldn't figure out what on earth she was supposed to do for that day? Dress up like a cat? Buy a t-shirt?

We bought her a HUGE cocktail ring. I bet that she will cut the hell out of her face with it.

But if a fifty-nine year old white woman starts using the term it is officially it needs to die a quick and ruthless death.

So speaketh AB.

Free Is For AB

Last night we had the chance to go to a Thunderbirds' game for free. We generally prefer our hometown Everett Silvertips in WHL hockey but free tickets are free tickets. Especially since this was a chance to use a luxury suite in the Key Arena.

I love WHL hockey. It is essentially glorified high school hockey. The passing and stick handling are sloppy. But the kids skate fast, they hit hard and there is a lot of fighting.

For the first time I felt a twinge of sympathy for the Sonics and their whining about the luxury suites at the key. I mean they are not really so luxurious. This is the Sonics' fault, of course, since they designed the damn things, but yeah.

It was fun up there though. You can see everything and we had the TV set to first the WSU game and then the dog show. It made watching the game really social. You watch the game sure, but also talk to your friends. Kind of a party atmosphere.

Best part by far? PRIVATE BATHROOM. Oh! And private entrance! No line! Next to the parking garage!

The only shitty part of the whole evening was this family that was sharing the suite with us. Now I am definitely not a kid hater and I actually think minor league hockey is an excellent place to take a child. But you know, letting a toddler run around, scream, push on the other people in the suite, throw cups over the ledge onto the people seated below and just generally act wild without even attempting to control him was just not cool. I wouldn't have cared at all if they were paying any attention to him, but they just ignored him. Even creepier was this whole moment when the mom got frustrated with him crawling all over the seat and shoved him hard and he fell upside down (he was not hurt). He cried and she laughed at him. Was strange. The little boy was actually a very sweet little boy his parents were just wackos.

But still. Free suite!

Notice That The Sugar and Grease Groups Are Well Represented

My little backslide into burny peeland seems to have ceased--I think it was brought on by dehydration. So today I chugged an incredible amount of water. I think I spent most of the day peeing but hell, small price to pay for pain-free girly bits.

I started my new job a while back and it has been pretty good so far. A little nuts because it is our busy season and I am learning the new gig, doing my old one, and training my replacements. It's just a lot. A great opportunity and I am really happy but it is just. A lot.

And the thing is people keep asking me if I am excited. I am. I mean I was so giddy when they gave it to me y'all just do not even know. But I mean, I've settled down. I have work to do, besides how can you do a good job if you are walking around "just so happy to be here?"

I think people are disappointed that I don't seem more excited. And I am pretty sensitive to that because I am just not a demonstrative person like that. I think my nature is more reserved that to wear every emotion on my face. But I can tell people just thought I'd be cheering around. I don't know, it is a strange thing. Like my mother keeps asking me how the first day felt. Well, I mean it felt like a day of work. I was just glad to get started, glad not to have to wait anymore. But I mean ultimately it is a job, it's not a day at Disneyland so I mean it isn't like I was going to come home all stoked about how fun everything is.
***
And into something totally unrelated
***
I realized today that in the past three days I have eaten the following:

one can of pineapple
one Dick's deluxe with fries
2 iced sugar cookies from fancy Dallas bakery
one cup oatmeal
one cup rice and veggies
a scoop of macaroni and cheese
a scoop of ice cream

Even ignoring the complete lack of nutritional content--that isn't a lot of food for three days. I was a wee bit worried until I looked at the side effects of the anti-biotics. May suppress appetites.

It is a nice excuse to eat only what I really want though. I mean if I am only going to eat one thing today it might as well be ice cream.

Modern Medicine

I was so smug. The anti-biotics were working I felt fabulous. And then today my stomach swelled up and my girly bits are burning and I feel like hammered shit.

Fuckity fuck fuck fuck.

What the hell is modern medicine for?

Modern Medicine

I was so smug. The anti-biotics were working I felt fabulous. And then today my stomach swelled up and my girly bits are burning and I feel like hammered shit.

Fuckity fuck fuck fuck.

What the hell is modern medicine for?

Pug Splash

Remember that weird experiment in elementary school where you dropped watermelons off the roof? It's to test gravity or something I don't actually remember the purpose. What I do remember is the sound of the watermelon hitting the pavement, a sort of sickening thud that is sort of squishy sounding.

That sound flashed back to me last night just before midnight. Since the same one came from my kitchen. I woke up in a start and rushed in to find a lump of pug called Buster lying on the floor an overturned chair next to him. Dipshit had jumped on a chair to get on the kitchen counter and then fell.

He just seemed stunned. But then decided to celebrate feeling ok by doing high-speed laps around the house--over furniture, up and down the stairs. I finally pinned him down so I could check his legs and chest for injuries.

He's fine Fucking dumbass.

Perhaps I Need To Get Out More

There is nothing like 24 hours of anti-biotics to perk a girl up. And wake you up to exactly how shitty you have been feeling.

It is strange how you can feel sick but not even realize it. It just gets worse and worse--you try to sleep more, take some vitamins--but as soon as you start to take of it BAM.

Anyway, some one more talented than me should write a little love song about anti-biotics. Bliss is peeing without burning.

J is off playing softball so the dogs and I acting like it isn't a school night. Things we have learned so far:

1. Darla loves Captain Crunch.
2. It is possible to play run around the house without breaking anything but some one will probably puke afterwards.
3. Rooster is not amused. About anything. Ever.
4. Captain Crunch for dinner rules.
5. One night is not enough to get through the eighty-eleven hours of The Dog Whisperer and Dog The Bounty Hunter saved on my Ti-Faux.

Everyone on the Band Wagon

I'm supposed to be at a baseball game right now.

A friend of J's offered at us free tickets and we were all set to go when I had to rush to the doctor this morning. Seems that my kidneys are infected. Fever, blood in the urine, the lovely sensation of a ginsu knife demo into my abdomen every few minutes--these are bad things.

It certainly made work a little surreal. Fortunately, I am home now, deep conditioning my hair, eating ice cream and crying like a sap over the Saints game (though dude, I cannot help feel sorry for Atlanta because the ENTIRE WORLD is against them--anyone who isn't rooting for the Saints tonight completely sucks).

I think I deserve a little more ice cream before they sing "When the Saints Go Marching In" again and I start sobbing.

The New Breakfast Club

We like to watch football at home.

This is because the best kind of football Sunday involves down comforters and greasy bacon. It it being in your pajamas until 2pm. It's about dirty hair and flipping to the NFL Network and laughing at the guys on the 49ers' message board.

Sadly, because of Direct TV's strangle-hold on the NFL we never get to watch good games. So we went to the bar for the early game (we wanted to watch the Indy/Jacksonville game) and to watch at least part of the 49er game.

The Eagles started to kick our asses early and often so we did come home early.

We enjoyed the ass-whoping that the Seahawks were putting on NY (which late in the game got entirely too close) because we all hate Eli Manning. Watching the game at the bar is just totally different. You have to get dressed first of all. And feel a little self-concious in jerseys for a team not the home team. Plus, no candy.

Or duvets.

We came home for the second half and immediately relaxed (until the Seahawks started to buckle a bit) and put our feet up.

I wonder if they would let us drag our couch into the bar next week. We're the early game after all--we need to be there for breakfast.

A Little Like I Am Speaking A Foreign Language

I think a lot of people are in the same position that I am. That their jobs, the things they spend most of their time doing, are careers that didn't really exist a generation ago. Business has changed, technology has changed, and a lot of us make a living doing something that most people don't realize people actually do.

My job is like that. And with the new one it has become even harder to explain. Especially to people like grandparents, who are genuinely happy for me but really are sort of flabbergasted that some one is necessary to do what I do. I read a letter from my grandmother and I can sort of hear her whispering in my ear, "they pay you for that?"

Yes they do.

It is one of those gaps that I suppose get wider every year. I mean my grandparents remember a time before plumbing and electricity were common. My grandfather worked in offices without typewriters, but did manage to graduate to a computer. There is a lot happening in the past eighty years so I feel a little guilty asking them to try to figure this out too.

I want to make it simpler. Perhaps I will start telling them I am a truck driver.

Homework

I have a big work thing in a couple of weeks and they assigned us homework to prepare for it. And one of my co-workers mentioned that she just wasn't going to do it.

Totally fucking blew my mind.

Not do it?

This honestly proves that I am such a goody-two shoes about so many things. I have never not done my homework. What if I didn't get an A?!?!?! Do I think that they will fire (or probably even notice) people who don't do this assignment? Not really. But I would obsess and worry too much over it to make it worth not doing the assignment. Worse, I don't think I can even do a half-assed job because I can hear my dad's voice in my head, "It's ok to get any grade AS LONG AS YOU DID YOUR BEST. . ."

Clearly I need some lessons on breaking rules and getting over myself.

And a lot of tequila. I still have an assignment to do.

But Obviously My Memory Is Not So Great

On my way home each night I pass the same billboard. It is an advertisement for the local transit system and it features a women who is blurred in the photo because she is riding a bicycle and throwing her head back with laughter. And every damn day I think the same thing (which, shockingly is not "bullshit, anybody doing that shit would crash"), "Why the fuck is Jamie Lee Curtis doing ads for Sound Transit?"

I think this same thing every single day which proves, 1. this model likely makes her living based on her, at least blurry, likeness to Ms. Curtis and, 2. I never fucking retain information.

Also in this vein, when I drive by this sort of sad roadside stand of "oriental rugs" and wall hangings, you know the kind that feature Elvis? There is one that always looks like two polar bears butt fucking. Honestly, the first time I saw it I almost drove off the road. Bear anal sex! AWESOME! But near an elementary school? Of course I sort of wanted to hang it in my living room. Sadly, it really is more of a bear family scene. I do not know why "loving bear family" reads as "zoological porno" to me but it does. This probably says a lot more about me than I want to think about.

Not to mention another thing I never learn, not to start entries with long stories because I can never remember what the fuck the entry was supposed to be about.

Something tells me it wasn't possible hermaphidite actresses and the sexual habits of the animals in Antartica.

At least I don't think so.

Monday Night Football

We don't even like Jacksonville but we are enjoying Monday night football right now.

Fuck you Ben!

Seriously. Way to throw a couple of interceptions on national TV. Maybe the fucking national media will stop sucking your cock for five minutes now.

Probably not.

But still. SHUT OUT. Fuck off asswipes. Go back to Pittsburgh.

My Vernon Davis jersey came today, courtesy of the best mother-in-law EVER. The 49ers won yesterday. Football season is BACK.

Bet You Money My Dad Didn't Ask Either

My mother and I took my dad and J to get fitted for their tuxes for my sister's wedding today. The whole experience sums up everything that is different (and WRONG) about men. We get there first and I fill out the paperwork for J and all he does is stand up while the girl measures him. He gets annoyed because I don't remember his shoe size (UM but neither does he so WTF DUDE). Once my parents get there lather, rinse, repeat (except my dad at least knows his shoe size) and my mom and I wander the store a bit. Once they are all done we end up paying for the stupid things and making sure that we know how they can pick things up and the guys stand around staring at the TV in the store.

Later I ask J what the tuxes that Sister picked out look like . . .he has no idea. He didn't even ask.

Guy just paid a hundred bucks (or I guess he let me pay a hundred bucks) for an outfit and didn't even ask to see it.

Weirdo.

This is in such a contrast to how bridesmaids work. I mean there are huge diplomatic conferences that take place about bridesmaids dresses (though not for this wedding thank GOD). Negotiations have to be made, usually one bitch cries, and most often the bride asks for something really unreasonable or heinous like everyone has to grow their hair to the exact same length and if that means that the girl with natural girls has to have her hair chemically straightened then SO BE IT THIS IS MY DAY.

The only other time I have been a bridesmaid this shit happened but blissfully I was not there. The other maids were her sisters and they had a battle royale that I was pleased to be a couple of thousand miles away from. It did result in us wearing crazily expensive dresses in a color that made me look naked but at least I didn't have to get in a cat fight over it.

Of course at least I knew what the damn outfit looked like.

Idiots.

Room For Three

A couple of weeks ago was my best friend's fourth wedding anniversary. She got her final divorce papers in the mail that very day.

Sometimes fate is a cruel cruel bitch.

Their divorce took longer than normal. Things got a little messy around property division (not uncommon) and he putzed around a lot--he didn't really want to be divorced. And the whole time she kept pushing harder and harder. She just wanted it over with. And when it was . . .well.

She was heartbroken.

I wasn't surprised.

She doesn't miss him. I think she was over him before she even filed for the divorce. But when you get married you aren't just marrying the person. You are signing up for a certain way of life. You are supposed to be partners, to share your lives, to grow old together, to support one another. You imagine the house and the family and she was mourning that part. Is mourning that part.

When you put on the big poofy white dress you never really imagine that you will spend your fourth anniversary opening up notices from the state family court. I mean I am the most cynical bitch around and I have never thought that.

I know that she will be fine. In truth she is already more fine than she was at this time last year. She isn't dreading the inevitable divorce now. She isn't putting off starting over. She's already done the hard part.

It is just hard to remember that when your best friend calls you in the middle of the night, making you promise that she can come live with your kids (that you don't have) instead of going into a home.

Sorry unborn children, make sure you have enough spare rooms for the three of us.

Sated

The past couple of years have been a little rough in my career. I don't think that is so unusual for people in their mid-twenties. Sometimes it takes time for opportunities to catch up with ability. Sometimes you have to learn hard lessons about professionalism, dealing with others, about politics, about balancing your life and your work. I never imagined myself doing the kind of work that I do now. I do not have the kind of job that easy to explain to people outside my industry. I do not save lives or build anything. But I find a lot of satisfaction in my work. I bust my ass and I am good at what I do.

Most of the people in my family have done physical labor of some kind. Not my parents or sister but my extended family. Even if they are professionals they are nurses or other types of jobs that require physical labor. They really do not understand how some one who sits all day at a desk can be working hard. Not that it is in any way the same thing as digging ditches.

I got promoted yesterday. It feels like I have been working towards this for a long time. And I have. I've pushed and pushed and had to wait a lot longer than I thought I would. It has been worth it though. I really believe that. That is not to say that I am not going to hate my job in the next couple of months--I probably will. It is going to be a tough time. But I worked for this, I earned this. And it's mine.

There is something really cool about calling your parents and telling them that you are getting what you wanted. Something that you have earned. There is something amazing about telling your husband that that thing that you have been obsessing about for months is finally here. And yeah, our bank account is going to benefit a bit too. I highly recommend it. I truly do.

It even makes a terrible night of softball (I was a sub--everyone else played fabulous, I hit for shit and did something terrible and swell inducing to my foot) feel good. Nothing matches that.

I need to save this feeling. I'm going to need it next month when I am all angsty and worried that I can't do this. But for now I just feel satisfied.

Empty

We went to a baseball game on Monday night.

It was surreal.

On one hand, the place was empty. It could be because the Mariner's suck and they were playing the Blue Jays who aren't so hot either. Or it could be that people are afraid still. Which I sort of understood.

For me it felt very right to be out that night. There were tributes to our local fire and police departments. And to those who died.

I wasn't in New York or DC that day. I don't know anyone personally who died. All that I lost that day was my feeling of safety and security--which five years later still isn't the same. And the ability to talk about patriotism. Because people have co-opted patriotism and made it something strange and ugly.

I love this country but it frightens me. It frightens me how we haven't learned much in the past five years. That we haven't changed or grown. And it frightens me that that stadium was so empty.

Treasure Found

After all my bragging about my sister not being a Bridezilla, I have to admit my mother has been a bit of a MOBzilla. A tad. About her dress.

I took my mom shopping for a dress for my sister's wedding a couple of weeks ago. The most successful part of the day was she only cried twice. We found one outfit she liked but it was a way out of our budget. It actually cost more than my wedding dress. It looked great on her but that did seem excessive.

Everything else looked like shit.

And we were a little traumatized. There are very few things as demoralizing and trying on thirty or forty dresses and having none of them fit. Or having a few fit but those make you look like a rotting summer sausage--the gases being emitted by the decay forcing through the casing.

We went again today. I have to admit I gave myself a little pep talk on my drive down there. In many ways, having this happen with my mother's dress was much worse than having it happen to me. My mother is a very kind person, who doesn't do much for herself. And she has the lowest self-esteem you can imagine. And of course looking terrible in all of these dresses just made her feel worse.

Finding the right dress became more than just finding the dress. I think for both of us it was symbolic. Our family has been through so much in the past few years. I think we have all worked through some of the ugly shit and our dynamic really feels good. It is just hard because I think we are all afraid of fucking that up. I know that my sister doesn't truly care what she wears. But we are not a part of her daily life so we want to make a good impression. And we really desperately do not want to do anything that would embarass her.

Today was so much better. We found three or four that looked great on her. And one she loved. Bought that one, and a gorgeous necklace (that actually cost more than the dress) so she is ready to go.

And we didn't have to burn down a single store to find it. There are retail gods after all.

Look Away Boys, Nothing For You Here

First. Period. In. Three. MONTHS.

GREETINGS AUNT FLO, WHY DID YOU STAY AWAY SO LONG?!!!

It's A Small World

I read this post at Weigook Saram with interest. She talks about how she feels like the differences between her culture and her husband's culture is both a strength and a strain in their marriage. I imagine that this seems more obvious in biracial relationships--or those between people who have obvious cultural divides. But I feel quakes of it in my marriage too, and J and I would be classified as from the same culture.

I think that is honestly the toughest part about marriage for me. Harder than money, harder than career. Harder than shit about kids. Because all of those arguments begin with culture for me. It may not be a racial or ethnic culture but more of based in the culture of my family of origin. How I was raised and what is normal for me looks pretty different than what is normal to him. And y'all KNOW THAT I AM RIGHT.

I am pretty uptight about being on time. I hate being late. It makes me feel uncomfortable. It's rude. I can't get passed that. J is late every day and doesn't think a thing of it. Especially in social situations when he thinks people don't care.

In my family we are typical midwestern and don't talk about money. I don't even like to tell my parents how much money we make or how much things cost or how we spend our money. Filling out the paperwork to buy the house gave me hives. J will tell anyone anything. He will blurt how much an item cost without batting an eyelash. He talks salary with anyone who asks and probably some who don't.

I do think that clear cultural divides would make this whole maze more complicated. But I also think that in some ways that they might make it easier. If your husband is Korean and you are not it is pretty obvious to you and to him and to all around you. Misunderstandings are expected. And you have constant reminders about how you might see the world differently. For us those differences are wrapped up in class and economics and our family dynamics. And that is a lot harder to handle sensitively. I can't just say to J, "You talk about money so openly because you are white trash!" I mean I could but it would be mean and not terribly accurate.

This could be why people get divorced. It can be hard enough to adjust to another culture without it being in your own home.

Insulting Compliment

I realize that my post last night made it sound like I expect my sister to behave like some crazy veiled banshee who wants my soul in exchange for the right place cards at her reception.

Way to insult the person you were trying to compliment AB!

I really didn't. It is just I have been regaled with bridezilla tales all week from various sources and it took me back to a dark dark place when everyone I knew was getting married and acting like their liveswould be ruined if they somehow didn't convince their bridesmaids to get matching pedicures, hairstyles and teeth capping.

I am just really thankful she isn't going there.

So I insult her on the internet.

Though it does show our family harmony that I didn't get a pissed off email right? RIGHT?!

And Easy On Me Is The Point

When my sister announced her engagement (and her plans of her wedding) I braced myself for the coming End of Days. My sister, despite her pronouncements to the contrary, definitely inherited the Drama Queen Gene. Sis did tell me that she wasn't going to be a bridezilla but honestly y'all, my experience has been that when some one says they won't be a bridezilla that means you are totally getting a three am teary call about how her day will be ruined! because the caterers won't make the waitstaff wear uniforms in the special wedding colors! or because they can't get mongrammed toilet paper at the ceremony!

I love my sister. I want her to have whatever she wants. But I am so relieved she has not pulled any of this shit.

I think it is to our credit as a family that (I think) everyone is keeping a clear head. Sis sent me an email talking about how similar I am to her future sister in law who is demanding and difficult and actually sounds pretty horrible. BUT. In the spirit of our new found family amity I figured she meant we were alike in some unnamed but positive way.

REALLY.

Honestly, she has been great, especially if you consider the strain of planning a wedding on the timeline that she has put herself on. My job is to be supportive, do whatever she wants, reign in any bratty behavior on our side of the family and look pretty. So far I am doing my job.

I am just glad she is making it easy.

All Of My Hipster Friends Can Fuck Themselves

I used to be cool.

Well, I once passed for cool. If the observer didn't pay too close attention, maybe squinted. Sort of.

I knew where the cool bars and clubs were. I managed to get strange men to buy me drinks and take me nice places. Then I met J, who was just as poor and broke as me. We got married, bought a house and never had fun again.

It is important to understand this so that y'all can understand our motivation for Thursday night. We had free bleacher seats for the local minor league baseball team. Free seats, free parking, cheap eats. That equals AB family fun right there.

We sat with a bunch of people J knows from work. Six adults, 847 children. I think I am the only one in the group that watched more than about half an inning of the game. I give this team credit, they had a bunch of activities for kids. They could play a game where they tried to catch a fly ball (and won a prize, whether they did it or not). They could jump around in a huge balloon bouncy thing. They could run around the bases. They sang Take Me Out To The Ball Game during the seventh inning stretch.

At some point during the game J got up to go to the bathroom and to get us some drinks. Forty minutes later I have to admit I wondered what happened to him. The little girl that had been spending her time poking him in the stomach and laughing was FRANTIC that he might not return.

He did show up, sodas in hand, but sweating, shaking and bleeding from one knee. Apparently every child in the group had attacked him at once and he was FORCED to play with them. He described it as being caught in a Ooompa Loompa civil war. Looking at him, I am not sure it was an exaggeration.

I have to admit that I am thrilled he has found playmates who are on his intellectual level. Even if they are ages 2-6.

We left the game much past our bedtime on a school night and were awarded a loaf of wheat bread from some sort of promotion. Which is how I ended running down the main drag of the city being chased by a man hitting me with a loaf of bread.

That isn't actually cool is it?

THERAPY NECESSARY

I know I have covered this before. I have this slight obsession with other people's obsession with my hair color (and seriously, by extension my pubic hair). And yesterday, a friend of mine, a friend who has long admired my hair a little too much and is naturally flirty went down a path he goes down so often with his coy, "OH? You are a TRUE BLONDE," and dude it was skeevy. He doesn't mean it that way but he does lear when he says it and maybe he was just messing with me, maybe J has told him this bothers me, HELL maybe he reads this blog (in which case QUIT THINKING ABOUT MY PUBIC HAIR PLEASE). It was especially weird in light of a few things:

1. He has told some one I know (but he doesn't actually know that I know) that he thinks I have a "juicy" ass.

2. He had just finished telling me all about his sex life because his wife just had a baby and there isn't one and was whining about "his needs" (and oh my god, don't get me started, that is the grown man's equivalent of a high school "but I'll get blue balls" and gets no sympathy from me. Buy some porn, grab some lotion and give that poor woman a break you ass).

3. He wants me to give him a massage.

But whatever, he doesn't actually mean any harm and is just missing the fact that seriously, my hair is blonde I didn't develop robotic pinchers for toes. This isn't really an important genetic expression you know?

But I also have issues with the phrase "natural blonde" because, I mean, I am one. Technically. Pretty much. It is actually more complicated than that and maybe I am just mincing words but I mean. I color my hair. I color it for stupid reasons and people just stare at me in amazement when I explain them. My hair is naturally medium ash blonde at the roots, light ash blonde in the middle section and platinum at the ends. This is a normal thing for blondes, people aren't used to seeing it of course because most blondes you know are really naturally something else. But I feel like the color at the roots makes me look sort of drab and sad. So I color it all one color. Sometimes darkening the whole thing to my root shade and sometimes to the medium shade and sometimes I go light (which is how J likes it). But it always bleaches out again, especially when I go tanning.

So I never know how to answer that, is my hair natural? Because yes. But no. And you can totally get this color with Feria. I mind-fuck it to death and actually now that I have typed this all out I think, perhaps I need to go to therapy for my hair.

When I got my hair cut last weekend the father-son duo who run my salon told me that they think my hair is too light. J immediately stomped his feet and started petting my head, saying that my hair is PERFECT right now. The right color, right length. Which perversely makes me want to cut it.

Dude, I cannot stop writing about my hair.

OH! When I was cleaning up my guest room I found THIS (admittedly the much older version)in my upper storage. My sister and I were the queens of the fucking Caruso during the 90's. We set our hair in those rollers and big giant curls. I have written before that I hated having big hair and curly hair and WHY DID I USE THIS HAIR APPLIANCE? I have no idea why.

That is a total life.

I do know why. I used the curlers to straighten my hair. The ends would be curly but the top would be straight and smooth. So I would set my hair at night and sleep on it and have straight hair.

But the fact that the damn thing is in my guest room makes me feel so SOUTHERN. Not that there is anything wrong with that. I just feel like I should love big hair and COLOR (channeling Kayne from Project Runway).

Heh. Maybe I should give it to my sister as a shower gift.

And sign up for hair related therapy.

Perhaps I Am A Little Too Involved

On Tuesdays I watch the Contender, the most manipulative show on television (even if you consider last week's episode of Project Runway, which for the fucking record if Jeffrey talked to my mother that way you all could be emailing me at anyabeth@federalwomenscorrectionfac.gov because motherfucker would have gotten some new piercings with one of those fancy industrial sewing machines. Fuck that noise, no one talks to Mama AB that way). For those of you unfamiliar with the Contender it is when ESPN stops playing Sportscenter and The World Series of Poker on repeat for an hour each week and puts sixteen boxers in the house and lets them beat the crap out of each other.

I don't even like boxing y'all. And I hate the cliches of reality TV, about honor and playing the game and blah blah blah and this show uses up it's cliche allotment in the first five minutes. Every guy on there fought like a champion, was a real warrior, is just trying to make a better life for his kids.

And THEY SHOW THE KIDS. Fortunately, this season some one at ESPN or maybe the mothers decided that maybe having babies in the actual boxing arena was a little unnecessarily dramatic. I can't say that I miss the hysterical screaming babies, but the ten year olds bawling their eyes out because they are old enough to actually understand what the phrase "irreparable brain damage" really means aren't thrilling me either. I could not watch my husband fight like that. I could not watch him bleed and sweat. I think I would just tap him on the shoulder and be all, "Baby, really. If we both work two jobs we can put you through night school. Then I'll go. I'll be a dental hygenist. Seriously, none of this. Get in the car."

One of my favorites was eliminated tonight. Not that I hate many of them. I just liked this one especially and of course I saw his demise coming in minute thirty because the Contender barely hides this shit from you. At least let me cling to my hopes.

I don't know how I got hooked on this show. It isn't even good.

One thing amazes me. Most of them are hard core religious and think that God wants them to win this show. I am not being disrespectful of anyone's beliefs here (actually I totally am) but GOD DOES NOT CARE ABOUT REALITY TV. I can imagine that it is comforting to believe that there is a plan for you. I can respect that belief. I don't share it but I get it. But I think the belief that God created this fucking reality show to reward you above all others is so arrogant and self-absorbed. God is busy with hurricanes and famine and nuclear weapons. He is hearing the good night prayers or little babies and looking in on those who are sick. He is dealing with heavy shit man. He wants your ass to be just fine, but he doesn't love you more than the guy you are hitting.

Also, I know I am not Christian but Jesus wants you to spread his message through BOXING?

I guess this is just my warm up for tomorrow when Project Runway will fuck with me more. That is a reality show God should get involved with because no deity wants Vincent and Angela on my TV another week.

ARGH

I am feeling just a general feeling of melancholy lately. I think this is due to just bullshit happening on the work front, the changing of the seasons, allergies and some crap that makes me feel like the universe that is fucking with me. I am trying not to get dragged down in it and power through the week but in the mean time these things are bugging me:

1. FUCKING bugs of some sort that keep swarming around my kitchen. If I wash the dishes or don't, put away food instantly NOTHING works just fucking BUGS.

2. My new bangs that are not the full bang that I wanted during my haircut on Saturday. They are neither long nor short and just keep falling in my face. BAH.

3. J working late all the damn time. Enough that I can't be zen about it anymore. Come home at a normal time or call. Don't give me a half-assed apology anymore.

4. The hives on my wrists from bug bites (possibly my kitchen bugs!).

There are a few things that are making me back away from the ledge:

1. Throwing out all the damn junk mail that has been accumulating all over the mantle, coffee table and dining room.

2. Doing laundry at 10 last night, even if it made me tired today--at least I had clean underwear.

3. Going grocery shopping. At least we can eat!

4. Buster and Darla chasing the cat around the house--may they all sleep deeply tonight.

5. Going to bed early tonight. I am guessing.

Like A Good Wife Should

A good wife would have let J have his moment with Jason Giambi and bask in the glow for a while.

I am not a good wife.

The really shitty Mariners beat the Yankees last night and what you don't see pictured here (with the beer chugging and crabby look and the rally cap) is his tappity tapping foot as the Yankees left about 84,000 runners on base. That is actually why this picture is blurry--he just kept moving. Also not pictured? His quickly hidden look of self-doubt when I asked if MAYBE he had cursed Giambi when he shook his hand (yeah, I am aware they actually won the game immediately following that but you know, baseball fans are a superstitious lot so the seed has Been Planted).

We had a great time at the game, the seats were fantastic, right on the third baseline and backed up to the walkway behind us so that you could just crawl over the back of your seat and there was the bathroom. Brilliant. We went with J's co-worker and his wife and even though I am incredibly bad at small talk I think everyone had fun.

I really like this couple as they seem to have a relationship that we can relate to and yet are interesting individually. Plus, he seems slightly afraid of his wife and that is a dynamic I truly approve of. It was truly lovely to have two other people to help me yell insults at the Yankees and to poke at J while he is depressed.

I heartily approve anyone who will help me kick J when he is down.

I Hate The Yankees But I Love Their First Baseman

J had a very good day.

I believe I have mentioned that he is a Yankee fan. A HUGE Yankee fan. The kind of Yankee fan that will bored the shit out of you babbling about Don Mattingly. The kind that put a fucking BOOT through a television in 1995 when the Mariner's beat the Yankees in the playoffs and Don Mattingly never got a World Series title. The kind of fan that will not buy a goddamn new hat because he only buys a new hat after a World Series title and he is not changing now even though his hat smells weird and is too small for his giant head and WILL YOU JUST GET ANOTHER ONE PLEASE I AM BEGGING.

And he met Jason Giambi today. There is photographic proof of the blessed event and I believe this is what finally will get my photo files backed up. Vacations pictures, photos of weddings, family events--these things do not need backing up. But a blurry ass (I cleaned it up the best that I could) camera phone photo is a precious gem that must be preserved like a precious gem. J is kicking himself because he didn't have a pen so he didn't get an autograph but Giambi did shake his hand and J is never washing it again. I plan on letting him grope my boob so he can tell people that Jason Giambi groped his wife's boob.

I have always liked Jason Giambi. Despite the scandals about steroids I think he got scapegoated in a really ridiculous way. He obviously made mistakes and is definitely paying for them. But he has always struck me as the kind of person who feels lucky to make his living playing baseball.

Anyway he was an absolute delight to my husband who I am sure acted like a little drooling fan-boy puppy. These men must deal with this shit every day and even though it is part of the job I am imagine it must get tiresome dealing with freaks every day. I mean there are pieces of my job that sometimes I just want to JAB MY EYEBALL out rather than do one more time and perhaps I am less than gracious about each and every occurrence. But Giambi shook my husband's hand, he asked him if he had a camera phone because he could take a photo, he treated J with respect.

GOD GIAMBI DO NOT MAKE ME LIKE THE YANKEES NOW.

I Had A Bad Day

I had a bad day today.

**I'm editing this post because I am super paranoid and because BAH I am done with it. Not really. But those of you who missed it, I had a really shitty thing happen at work, I handled it the best that I could which was not as calmly as I would have liked and now I hate everything and everyone. The End.

Shit

Fucking Red Sox.

Red Sox v. Yankees weekend is always a rough one in my house but this one has been rough for a different reason.

Red Sox have blown it. Assholes.

Dating Advice From Some One Who Doesn't Date

I would like a do-over.

My eyeball isn't being crushed inside my skull today. Amazing how that improves the day. So I am just pretending that today was my birthday. I made the executive decision to just sleep in and cruised in to work at 9. A much better way to begin the year so I'm thinking I will just switch to the 17th next year.

This is no excuse to anyone who might forget.
***

When my friend T was here, we talked a lot about her dating life. Now I have not dated in seven years (CHRIST ON A CRACKER) but I do recall that I was . . .not a good dater. I am not a very patient person, nor one to suffer fools kindly. My capacity for putting up with bullshit is about the size of a thimble and since dating is about 95% bullshit and 5% everything else I enjoyed dating but man I do not want to do it again.

Of course the next time, God willing, I will be like 90 years old and still a hot ticket because of my smoking ass.

But T and I were talking about the men she meets and what they are like and I was struck again, by no means for the first time in our friendship, how fundamentally different we are as people. Because, y'all, she is NICE. She puts up with so much crap that a girl that looks that good, is that smart, and has her shit together should just NOT DEAL WITH.

So I was thinking of some dating tips, just words of wisdom that dear GOD I wish people would take.

Never date some one that lives with their parents after age 21 (these are all excluding bizarre circumstances that are unavoidable).

Never date anyone keeps small dead animals that are not meant for food in their freezer.

Never date some one who says, "You are too good for me."

Never date anyone that blames their sexual dysfunction on you.

Never date some one who plays music/TV/literary police (as in you can't like Britney Spears because all pop music is CRAP sayeth He Who Knows Everything And Must Be Listened To)

Never date anyone who clips their toenails in the kitchen

Never date some one who won't give you a home phone number.

Never date anyone who doesn't admit they have kids until the third date.

Never date a man who hates his mother (I think for women this one is more the dad).

Never date a man who claims his mother is his best friend (again, Daddy issues for the ladies).

Never date some one who tries to dictate your hairstyle.

Never date anyone who tries to dictate your pubic hairstyle.

Never date some one who would vomit on your side of the bed, cover it with a towel and expect you to still sleep on it.

Never date some one with a tattoo related to Playboy.

Never date some one who flirts with your mother.

Never date anyone that tells all his friends what great blowjobs you give.

Never date anyone who tells you "they don't know how to love."

Never date some one who steals the silverware from the restaurant.

Never date anyone that asks you to show your tits to his brother to settle an argument.

Never date some one who asks about how you feel about fisting on the first date.

Never date anyone who has nicknames like The Crybaby and The Bitch for his ex-girlfriends.

Never date anyone who makes you call him Daddy.

Never date anyone who asks if he can call you a name that is not your own because yours is too similar to his ex-wife's.

Never date some one who has never had a real relationship before (after age 20).

Never date some one who doesn't like anyone to make A Sound during sex.

Never date some one who harps on your age (as in, I can't believe you are only 23!).

Never date anyone who shoplifts for fun.

Never date some one who pouts when you have your period and won't even consider having anal sex instead.

Kick that guy in the balls instead.

Damn. I think I could go on for hours. Imagine if I had stayed single long enough to get bitter.

Of course, I broke a rather large rule when dating J (but so far it hasn't bitten me in the ass). Never date anyone who has his crazy ex-girlfriend still living in his apartment after the break up (in my defense he kicked her out before we had a date).

Though I imagine it could have made a great story.

28

My body decided to welcome my fucking 28th year by swelling my eye shut. I have a sinus infection.

DELIGHTFUL.

So I woke up at 1, was at work by 5:15 and seriously want to die right now. My insurance company has a bug up it's collective ass about the anti-biotics the doctor prescribed and since I am allergic to a whole mess of things it has just been a chore dealing with it all today.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TOOOOOO MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

I did get to have some sort of x-ray, robotic brain scan thingy that seemed lot a ride at Disneyland.

OH SHIT, update, my damn scan came back negative so they are like "well we can't do anything bitch, your eye can just stay swollen shut"

FUCK

I take everything back, 28 sucks.

Early Bed

I listened to the will of the internet and the internet says my curly hair is just fine for public viewing. Since I was fucking WORN out from all the martini drinking and shopping this weekend I overslept and just left it alone.

And the world didn't end. Actually, I got a lot of compliments which confirms that the internet doesn't lie and that I should never bother doing anything to my hair since no one fucking appreciates it anyway.

I am still tired though. And overwhelmed by all the babies. Linda went and had Oliver this weekend and so did my cousin. Funnily enough they both had them exactly two weeks early.

So in their honor I am going to go to bed early.

Nap

It is hard having your best friend live across the country from you.

It means that you miss the details in each other's lives--even the big ones. You don't tell each other everything. Sometimes you get by onthe Cliff's Notes. It means that you don't get to be the hard ass that you want to with her--telling her like it is. Because you only see her once or twice a year so maybe how you are telling it isn't exactly how it is.

But it also means that you get to have a Disneyland of a weekend. Eat way too much food (including a lovely surprise dinner hosted by your husband at a fancy place), drink and carouse, meet her former employee that lives here and learn what it is like to shop for some one with perfect figure and a huge budget (which is, as I expected incredibly awesome). Sure, there are some pitfalls. It took us forever to get ready in my tiny bathroom. And sometimes, even the extra small was too big for her. But we soldiered through it and had a hell of a weekend.

I failed to convince her to move to Seattle though. She is selfish to the END that one.

Now I need a nap.

The Beach

When my family moved here from Iowa almost (OH MY GOD) twenty years ago I didn't really know anything about Washington. I knew it was on the west coast.

I thought it would be like California (which I had also never seen but knew about from TV and the Sweet Valley High books) only north.

My dad promised us a pool (still hasn't delivered because HI, it rarely gets over seventy degrees here) and I thought my sister and I would spend our summers by the beach.

This is the beach by my house. Not exactly sand-filled paradise I imagined at nine. It is rocky. Kind of cold and foggy. But check it out. CHERRIES GROW ON THE BEACH HERE.

My parents have a lot of what ifs about moving here. They worry about the crappy educations we got, the cost of living here. But beyond the fact that I cannot imagine what my life would be like (no J, no job in the industry I am in), I can't really imagine not living in this gorgeous place.

I'm spending the day bleaching my fucking bathroom and kitchen prepping for my best friend who is visiting this weekend. I am beyond excited. If anyone ever deserved a weekend of drinking and talking and eating melted cheese while quoting lines from Waiting to Exhale it is me.

And I bet at least some of those chats take place on the beach.

Proof That Parents Fuck Their Kids Up In Unknowable Ways

I was a tomboy as a child. I am not sure what brought that on but I do know that it was the source of a lot of problems between my father and I.

He had pretty rigid ideas of what a little girl should be. He was indulgent enough, he bought my sister a football helmet for her birthday when she wanted one. But I think that was because she was girlish enough for him.

I wasn't.

Arguments started over my clothes. I didn't like pink. I didn't like dresses. I remember crying tears of RAGE over being forced into frilly things. I wouldn't wear lace or ruffles. My mother had to start searching for an Easter dress for me right after Christmas. I remember my dad actually PAYING me to wear wool tights once. I just hated the feeling of skirts. You couldn't play properly, always having to make sure your underwear didn't show, and people just treated you differently. I liked jeans and sneakers and overalls.

Rather than letting it go my dad forced me to wear skirts and dresses not only for church but to school multiple times a week. No matter that the other girls, ones who were suitably feminine to my father, didn't do that. It was An Issue, and he couldn't let it go.

My hair was another issue. When I had my haircut I had to have it curled. I honestly cannot tell you why. I am not sure he could tell you why. Maybe because you could force a five year old. But I hated it. And I am not sure what it proved to anyone.

I don't know why my dad was so worried about my appearance. Was he worried that I was too boyish? Did he think I would become a lesbian? Did he think I would be ostracized by other kids? He never told me. I've thought of asking him now, but honestly my father is a totally different person now than he was twenty years ago. All I know is that he had an idea of what little girls should look like (namely, they should look like my sister) and he forced me into that mold.

It took me a long time to get over it. I don't think my dad was a bad father, of course not. I think he was trying to do what was best for me. I just can't figure out why the fuck it was so important. But it has made an impression on me. Even today I hate to wear skirts or dresses or pink in front of my parents (because I know they will fucking comment, BUT YOU HATE PINK--no one can change in their eyes) and I straighten my hair every day. It is pretty stupid when I type it out like that, but you know old habits die hard. And if my hair is curly than the terrorists win.

But above is a photo of my hair if I just let it dry (I am too photo shop stupid to blur out my face so see my clever way of dealing with it? Brilliant. Also, ignore the greasy roots it has been a long week). What do y'all think? Does it look dumb? I have no perspective on this issue. Of course whenever I ask for voting NO ONE COMMENTS but damn it. Am trying to get over childhood trauma here.

Even Though I Totally Wore Do-Rags in Tenth Grade, The Do-Rag Statute of Limitations Has Got To Be Over By Now

I went through this stage in junior high and high school were I wore shorts every day. I wore them for all occasions. Cut-offs, walking shorts, GOD HELP ME a snazzy little pair of velvet ones for those formal events. I even went through a particularly bizarre and ugly stage where I wore cut-offs over dark suntan colored panty hose.

I really was the sex goddess of the eighth grade.

But since high school I have gained new self awareness. A self awareness that brought to my attention that I have funky looking knees and they should never be seen in the light of day.

And so I haven't worn shorts outside of my home in like ten years. Not if it is ninety degrees. Not even if there is no breeze. Not even if you beg PLEASE (Dr. Seuss moment). I think the world deserves a AB weird knee-less existence.

Until a couple of weeks ago that is. It was approximately eighty-four thousand degrees and we were playing softball and I caved and bought a pair of work out shorts (lest y'all think I am not serious I didn't even own a pair of shorts). I would like to note that I wore those shorts for the first time at the game that I took the ball to the thigh. The universe telling me that it has seen enough of my thighs? Yes, I think so.

Since then I have continued to wear the shorts for our games--it is still summer after all and since I don't slide (really, I keep meaning to learn since my youth coach taught us the head first slide which is both stupid and gets your hair dirty so no) there is no real danger.

I just have to figure out a way to tell other people that I know I look bad. I am not kidding myself. I do not look like the cute gals on my team or other teams--the kind with fabulous legs who just look natural in their shorts. I look ridiculous and short and even less athletic than before (if that is possible). I've decided that not getting heat stroke is worth that but I would really like to prevent people from having, "that poor dear, I wonder if she knows," thoughts about me.

I do know.

I am not like the girl on the team last week who was wearing a DO-RAG unironically. She sure as fuck didn't know.

Everyone stare at her for a while.

The Correct Response is THANK YOU MORON

I can't take a compliment.

The sad truth is that I never have been able to. It is ridiculous, I am a grown woman and it is downright rude to brush off compliments from people about anything. I am not sure where this comes from, except that my mother can't do it either. Of course from her it is charming, I come off as some sort of drooling and arrogant bitch.

I take it back, I can take a compliment. If I concentrate VERY hard. I just say THANK YOU, which is all that is necessary. I manage this all the time because J is actually good with the compliments. But in my family it is normal to just joke back at the person and be incredibly fucking rude. Being rude is how we show we like you.

So something must have registered on my face when a guy at my office mentioned that I looked nice today. What a nice thing to say, and did I manage to croak out the correct response? I DID. But I sort of blurted it weirdly and since this guy is as socially awkward as me he seemed all embarassed and like freaked out like I was going to tattle to his wife or something and then I felt bad because why freak the man out he was just being polite and my god none of this would have happened if either of us were anything but socially impaired morons who just need to relax goddamn it.

It did go slightly better than the last time he commented that I look nice in skirts and I said, "Really, I always wonder if I look like a transvestite."

AT WORK. IN A ROOM FULL OF PEOPLE.

It is a wonder that I haven't been hired to write an etiquette book.

Am I Becoming One Of The Scary Bus People

I keep seeing this woman on the bus who I think may be an old friend of mine.

Does that make me sound sad that I don't know?

She looks a bit like her (of course a slightly older, heavier and not well dressed version of her), actually a lot, and has her mannerisms. But I can't quite be sure if it is her.

I could just ask of course. But it is a little complicated. This woman and I were friends and then roommates for a short time a few years ago. She was a good friend in that she helped my ass move out of a really horrible living situation I was in with a boyfriend. She and I had one of those can't-live-without-each-other friendships for about a year. And then.

She went crazy.

By then we were roommates. And she stalked me. Wanted me to tell her where I was going and when I would be back. Criticized my boyfriend (and got in bed with him). And I was a bad friend right back. Because I left. I didn't have a lease and so I just moved out with almost no notice.

I am well aware this makes me an asshole.

But I was only a couple of years out of an abusive relationship where some one tried to control my every move and this was starting to feel awfully familar. And I couldn't think of a damn reason that a good friend would climb into bed with my naked boyfriend (poor J was actually asleep) and not see the problem.

In our divorce she got my gay boyfriend, who wasn't too pleased with my heterosexual boyfriend and our mutual roommate (who liked me better but couldn't leave), I found a huge ass apartment in a scary neighborhood and got my freedom back.

I haven't really talked to her much since.

Sometimes I want to. DAMN we had fun for a while. That was a fun time in my life, full of many boyfriends (I developed a system of having 3-4 at a time) and parties and drinking. We made a lot of margaritas and smoked too many cigarettes and went to the fucking Tulip Festival. I knew she was jealous of me (she didn't have much luck with the 3-4 boyfriend system, or the 1 boyfriend system) and angry over something I did (or didn't do, because that doesn't make me look good but I didn't sleep with the guy she liked, he just wanted to fuck me--which I know because he whispered "I wanted to fuck you" in my ear *ROMANTIC*--but hi she was there the whole time and we didn't do a thing so I do not get how it is my fault he didn't like her but it probably is because we have established that I am an asshole). I knew she was angry and frustrated with her life. I just don't know why she went so crazy (even though I look back and damn I was a brat about it I mean I could have been nicer for crying outloud).

I could just ask this woman if she is who I think she might be. But if she isn't, it doesn't matter. And if she is I am not sure I want to know.

So I just keep staring at her on the bus.

Until she calls the cops I guess.

Needing a Medal For Domestic Making It Work

Today I toodled away the hours (when I wasn't obsessing and hand-wringing over Project Runway--fucking bastards on the East Coast are watching NOW) at work dreaming about the chili I had in the crock pot here at home.

It was going to be so spicy, with big chunks of tomato, and covered in cheese. I even planned what bowl I was going to eat it out of.

I got home and I didn't smell chili.

I admit, I had J all trussed up and ready to hang for being a No Good Rotten Crock Pot Non-Plugging Inner but no. Fucking crock pot is broken. Ice cold chili just sitting there uncooked on my counter.

Cue WEEPING.

I took the news stoically (if you discount the weeping) except for the very whiney phone message I left for J (sorry babe!). And raged in the shower. About cheaply made appliances that haven't been used that much and how I don't actually have anything else in the house for dinner and even if I did I didn't want THAT I wanted chili and OH MY GOD I COULD DIE.

But. I am a grown and mature woman. Who realized that her crock pot container is well insulated and that meant that the chili had been practically refridgerated for those hours. And could be modified and made on the stove.

Seriously, am a fucking trooper.

I need a new crockpot.

A Lot To Think About

I have a lot of things rolling around in my head but for now I am trying valiantly not to read Project Runway spoilers (WHO GETS KICKED OFF I MUST KNOW SOON). I am distracting myself with making chili and trying to figure out what to wear tomorrow.

My Cubbies traded Greg Maddox. Bah. I knew it was coming, I think that everyone handled it classily. But still. I wanted him to win a World Series with us. I know that isn't going to happen but still. I'm still wearing my jersey though. He is a Cub to me.

I'm annoyed with Mel Gibson. Even more after his "apology" today. He puts it entirely on Jews to find a way to "heal" from this incident. He is an anti-Semite. There is no denying that. Booze doesn't make you just come up with that shit on the spur of the moment. And does he want to claim that he was drunk during the entire filming of The Passion? Combine that with the incident in Seattle last Friday and I am so angry. Angry because honestly people want us to shrug it off. Like these are isolated events and we should forgive and forget. Some one actually quoted "turn the other cheek" at me today (in reference to Israel). Just for future reference, that isn't a part of Judaism. Judaism preaches justice and fairness. It doesn't teach it's people to take abuse from those in power. Neither of these events should inspire Jews to violence, I guess they are just a reminder that there is a lot of work to be done.

Bah. Project Runway, baseball and Anti-Semitism all in one entry. I need to get my shit together.